The coyote cries in the crisp fresh air
With head lifted high to the sky.
The beaver is alert
To the tingling of earth
And the stirring where ice crusts lie—
For the sun’s golden fingers
Have plucked at the snow,
And the wintertime sleep of the land
Is breaking and lifting
With each longer day
In the warmth of the sun’s bright hand.

[illustration] Illustrated by Ginger Brown